13. Wrenley
Red.
Scarlet, maraschino cherry, crimson—fucking candy apple shades cover everything in sight as Hunter grabs Dove’s face and kisses her.
Apparently, my best friend wants to meet his maker early, and I’m all too happy to send him there with a one-way ticket.
Something roars inside me—a beast I didn’t know existed, clawing to escape and murder my best friend before resurrecting him just to do it all over again.
Mine .
“Hey!” The woman—Cindy? Mindy? I don’t remember her name—cries as I break free from her embrace and charge across the bar.
Bunny jumps down from her stool, pale as a ghost, and bolts. Dove finally—why the fuck did it take her so long?—shoves Hunter away, then yells after her best friend. “Bunny!”
Hunter glances over his shoulder, flinches, then spins quickly when he realizes how close I am. “I’m gonna go after her. You two, do us all a favor and get the fuck over yourselves.”
“Hunter!” I growl, lunging for him, but he slips from my grasp and disappears into the crowd.
“What is wrong with you two?” Dove snatches her purse and follows after him, shouting over her shoulder, “Alex, I’ll take care of our tab later.” Without so much as a glance in my direction, she shoves past me and into the growing crowd.
The night air is cool as I step outside after her. Bunny and Hunter are nowhere to be seen, but Dove’s dress shimmers under the streetlights as she storms toward her apartment—yes, I know where she lives—arms wrapped around herself.
“Dove!”
Her blonde curls bounce as she shakes her head, offering no response. I have to jog to catch up. For someone so short and wearing such ridiculous high heels, she’s fast as fuck.
By the time I reach her, she’s lighting a thin cigar. I balk, snatching it from her lips. “That shit will kill you.”
Adorably, she stomps her foot, fists clenched at her sides. “What. The hell. Is your problem tonight?” She motions back toward the bar. “Go back to your hook-up and leave me alone.”
“Why? So you can meet up with Hunter?” I goad, knowing damn well she’d never do that to Bunny in a million years. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I follow her, trailing a few steps behind, keeping an eye out for creeps.
Sure, Wren. It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re checking out her ass.
Okay, I’m the creep.
She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “He wasn’t a bad kisser. I’d be into him if he and Bunny weren’t up each other’s asses.”
I have a feeling she’s verbally poking at me, but it sends a wave of jealousy through me all the same. “Knock it off, Dove.”
“Ooh, burn,” she says dryly. “Go back to your lady friend, Wren. I don’t need you to walk me home.”
“You drank enough tequila to kill a frat boy in his first year of college.” I notice her shiver and pull off my jacket, striding forward to drape it over her shoulders. “Here, take this.”
She stops, looking up at me as she clutches the fabric around her small frame. She looks endearing as hell in my clothes, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t love it. It makes me imagine her in just my dress shirt—or nothing at all, my sweat and other bodily fluids marking her skin.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice weary.
I shove my hands back into my pockets in an attempt at discreetly repositioning my pants, trying to ignore my body’s reaction. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t just say I wanted to go home with you, okay?”
Her brows draw together, and there’s something slightly familiar about the motion I can’t put my finger on. I’m sure I’ve seen her do it a million times before, but for some reason, it sparks a memory just out of reach—like déjà vu, but not.
“It’s fine,” she snaps, resuming her pace, sliding her arms through the sleeves of my jacket. “Really. Clearly, you don’t need company.”
“Someone sounds jealous.”
She snorts. “Keep dreaming, Songbird.”
It’s strange how it no longer bothers me that she calls me by the same nickname my mother used. Well… it does. But less than hearing her say my full name. That, I hated. It felt like a slap, like she had taken all her hurt and weaponized it, aiming straight for my chest.
“I’m not letting you walk home drunk.”
She doesn’t argue, and we fall into silence, the city sounds filling the space between us. It’s sort of… nice. Almost like we ’re just a normal couple on a regular date.
“Why are you so obsessed with the Baby Doll Killer?” she asks quietly as we approach her street. “What is it about her that you’re so attracted to?”
“Whoa. Attracted? That’s a stretch,” I lie with a nervous laugh. Memories of how easily I pulled the Doll into my lap the other night filter through my mind. How hard I was just from her presence. But how the hell did Dove conclude that I’m attracted to the killer? “I admire her. I wouldn’t say I’m attracted to her.”
“Your articles say otherwise. That’s why we haven’t published them. You know that, right? You put her on a pedestal and take away from the horrific things the men she kills have done.” Dove throws her hands up. “You have an entire board of her in your office. You’re obsessed!”
I walk faster until we’re side by side. Her face is flushed from the cold, her chest heaving from how worked up she’s getting. A smirk crawls across my face. “And you’re cute when you’re jealous.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t reply as she stops at her building’s entrance. I happen to know Dove’s unit was left to her by an aunt she visited often as a kid. The neighbors welcomed her when she was younger. With her bright and bubbly personality and the fact that most of them already knew and adored her, the other co-op members were all too welcoming when Dove moved to the city.
But I keep that to myself. Because why the fuck would I tell her I know any intimate details about her life?
She’s right.
I am obsessed.
With her.
And I’m beginning to believe it might not be such a bad thing. I’m starting to see there’s a lot more to Dove than the sparkly mask she shows the world. As much as I’ve tried to fight it, I want to know the real her. I want to crawl inside her head and settle in, the way she’s made a home in mine. I want her to be just as infatuated with the idea of us as I am.
“Well, this is me.” She won’t meet my eyes, nervously digging the toe of her white platform into the concrete. I’ve never seen her nervous before. It gives me hope.
Of what, I’m not entirely sure. I still see my mother when I look at her, and that terrifies me. My past still has its deformed fingers hooked under my skin. Dove is like a bright new beginning I don’t want to tarnish.
“Since you’re already here, you might as well come up.” She spins and heads inside without giving me a chance to say no. And I follow, because—newsflash—I’ve apparently become a simp.
Her place is bright and clean and so very pink. Cream and blush accents are everywhere, like something straight off a Pinterest board brought to life through decorative pillows, silk flowers, and even gilded crystal chandeliers. Dove’s taste is like an old, rich grandma’s—if that grandma had updated her appliances to match the century.
The rat greets us at the door. He looks like he’s gearing up for a Skittles commercial, his sparse hair still bright and colorful. “What’s up, little rat?”
“Don’t call him a rat!” Dove chides, but Fang just jumps on my leg, tail wagging like we’re old pals.
“He doesn’t care. I think he likes me.” I pick him up, tucking him into my arm like a baby. “Don’t you, little dude?” Scratching his head, I follow her further inside.
She glances over her shoulder, glaring at Fang. “Traitor.”
We reach her pristine, cream-colored kitchen with its custom blush refrigerator. “Do you want something to drink?”
She’s still swimming in my jacket as she opens a cabinet, pushing up on her tiptoes, revealing more of her bare thighs. My pants tighten, and I wonder what she’d do if I picked her up and set her on the counter .
For some reason, though, I find myself asking, “What set off your panic attack when you saw Fang?”
Dove freezes, fingers wrapped around a blush-colored crystal goblet before she retrieves a water pitcher from the fridge and fills the glass. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Dove. It set you off. There has to be a story there.” I push the glass back toward her when she slides it across the counter. “You drink it. I had a few beers. I’m pretty sure you drank half a bottle of Patrón by yourself.”
She fixes me with a sassy look. “I may be little, Songbird, but I can still drink you under the table.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I smirk, holding her gaze as she lifts the glass and takes a sip. “So, what’s the story?” I prod, setting Fang down and inwardly beaming when he begs for attention again.
Instead, I reach across the counter, refill her glass, and bring it over to the sofa. I place the cup on a coaster, patting the cushion beside me as I get comfortable. “You wanted to hang out, didn’t you?”
Her lips twitch as she taps her nails on the gold speckled cream granite. “I don’t think trauma dumping on a first date is exactly material for ensuring a second one,” she states flatly.
“Is this a date, Dove? Or are we just two colleagues hanging out?” I raise an eyebrow, patting the cushion again. “Come on.”
Fang jumps up like I was calling him, curling into my lap and facing Dove like an endorsement. It seems to work. The corner of her lips lifts, a breathy laugh escaping as she shakes her head. “He likes men in general. Don’t feel too special, Songbird.”
“Tell me he doesn’t like Ryan, at least? I don’t think I can be friends with you if you liked that douche,” I coo at the rat before realizing I just spoke to him in a baby voice.
Dove hides her smile in the cuff of my jacket, coming to join me on the sofa. She hugs a pillow to her stomach, resting her head against the back cushion. “Okay, I won’t.”
I drop a glare to Fang. He peers up at me innocently, tail wagging furiously, with big eyes half hidden by his long bangs. “You just lost two points in my book, rat.” I turn back to Dove. “Story time. Fess up. What set you off?”
She exhales heavily. “Wren?—”
“I’m trying to get to know you here, Dove. Give me something real. Deeper than what you show everyone else at work. Drop the sunshine act. You’re in a safe space. A very pink, very safe space.” I grin, gesturing around her living room .
“But am I in safe company?” she wonders aloud, melancholy creeping into her voice.
I meet her eyes, my earlier playfulness fading. “Yes. You’re in safe company. Whatever you tell me stays locked in here.” I tap my temple.
And in here. My heart chimes in.
Thanks, my dude, but I’m not ready to go spilling you at her feet just yet.
Dove inhales deeply, then exhales with puffed cheeks and pursed lips. “Okay. Well. Long story short, I got a teacher in trouble when I was younger, and the kids at school got upset. He was everyone’s favorite, so they picked on me in retaliation. I grew up in a small town—one where everyone knew everyone. We lived in a tight-knit neighborhood, but people were angry about what happened. The kids took it out on my dog.
They paintballed my house, shot my dog, and covered him in paint. He died—both from the force of the paintballs causing internal bleeding and because the paint was toxic. He tried to clean himself, ingesting it in the process. By the time my mom and I got home, it was too late.”
She ends her story with a nonchalant shrug. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have freaked out. I’m sorry.”
“What’s the long version?”
Her eyes snap up at my hardened tone. I listened the whole time, but my brain trips over the idea of her getting a teacher in trouble. A feeling crawls down my spine and spreads through my limbs, icy and bitter, leaving my skin pebbled with gooseflesh.
Something flickers through her pretty blue eyes. A hint of sadness. A heavy weight she’s carried for years. A recognizable torment I hope to God I’m wrong about.
But like calls to like.
And right now, Dove is shining like a damn lighthouse in the middle of a dark, stormy sea.
“What?” she asks on a breath, long lashes fluttering as if my question confuses her.
“What happened with the teacher? How did you get him in trouble?”
I shift. Fang jumps from my lap and pads down the hall, likely sensing the unease creeping through me.
To my surprise, Dove answers. Her eyes fall to the cushion between us as she plays with a random curl, running her fingers over the flaxen strands. “My dad died when I was thirteen. He was away on a business trip. Just standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a seat at a restaurant, when a drunk driver lost control and hit him.”
Tears fill her eyes, and my heart reaches for hers, aching to offer solace.
“We didn’t really get along. He always made me feel like I was a burden. My mom took it hard, though. She wouldn’t get out of bed for days at a time. She didn’t know how to do anything around the house. Dad paid the bills, managed their accounts, fixed things when they broke. She felt like her life was over. And while she was grieving… she sort of forgot about me.”
I think about my own childhood. About how my mother never left me alone. I don’t know which of us had it worse.
I want to pull her close, but Dove clings to the pillow in her lap like a lifeline, twirling her hair as she continues.
“That fall, I turned fourteen and started high school. Everyone was nice at first. Understanding. They let it slide when I didn’t want to participate in class. Kids gave condolences in the halls. Teachers asked about my mom. But no one knew that I was taking care of myself. No one really cared to look that closely. Not until him .”
Her voice cracks, and my hands clench. A lump forms in my throat because I already know the rest of the story without her having to say a word. But I let her continue anyway because I have a feeling she’s never told her account to anyone who wanted to truly listen.
“He was everyone’s favorite English teacher. Funny, smart, kind… handsome. All the girls had a cr ush on him. And I felt… honored when he started paying attention. At first, they were just little things. He’d ask how I was instead of my mom or if I needed anything for school. Then he told me he was impressed with my writing. Said I had talent. Asked if I’d ever considered pursuing it as a career, and offered to give me private tutoring lessons. Honestly, one of the only reasons I even became a writer was to spite him.” Dove angrily wipes her tears from her cheeks and snorts a laugh. “When everything was said and done, he told me I’d amount to nothing, but look at me now, Mr. Patterson!”
I scoot closer and rest a hand on her knee, stroking gently in what I hope is a comforting manner.
“Anyway, I was elated. So, I said yes. It started with tutoring after school, then late-night sessions, then spending time at his house. By the time I realized how wrong it was, I was nearly seventeen.” She sniffs. I make a mental note to find out everything I can about this guy.
If the Doll can do it, maybe I can too. Perhaps it’s not about facing what happened to me but ensuring it doesn’t happen to others. Maybe I can start that journey by rectifying Dove’s stolen past.
“He knew I needed a father figure, so he stepped in and groomed me. For a year and a half, he walked that line between innocent and wrong. And once he crossed it,” she exhales sharply, “he took most of my firsts. He ruined ‘good girl’ for me. I think I would’ve really liked that sexually, too.” She pouts, forcing a joke because it’s what she has to do to cope with the tragedy.
Dove meets my gaze, softening when she sees the unshed tears in my eyes. “Don’t cry for me, Songbird. I’m not worth?—”
I yank the pillow from her lap and pull her into mine, hugging her fiercely. “You’re wrong, Dove. You are worth it.”
She shudders against me, throwing her arms around my neck as she tightly returns my hug. We’re nearly in the same position I was in with the Doll last weekend, but I know without a doubt I’d rather be here with Dove than with the stranger I admire.
When she pulls back, I smooth the tears from her face with my thumbs. Even sitting, I’m taller than her, and I can’t help it when my dick grows hard beneath her, ready to say hello to the real thing instead of getting jerked off to the thought of her.
Her eyes drop to my lips. She licks her own.
Not the best time for our first kiss. I hate that Hunter’s lips have been on hers tonight, and I hate that the same pink lips I’ve agonized over for weeks now just told me a tale that rivals my own.
It’s not the time for intimacy .
Yet, as our breaths mingle, the space between us disappears. Gently, I cup her cheeks and guide her to me, tasting her for the first time. She tastes every bit as sweet as she looks, like candy and tequila, with a hint of citrus from the shots earlier. A reminder that she’s had a lot to drink.
“Stop overthinking it, Songbird, and kiss me,” she demands, winding her fingers through my hair.
She attacks my lips with a fervor that forces my eyes shut as I cling to her—to her scent and taste and the feel of her in my arms. So small and light and easy to escape from if I needed to.
So perfect.
She licks the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and rocks against my erection. The tension shifts—from sexual to anxious. I pull back, hands firm on her shoulders.
She giggles. “What? Trying to make me work for it?”
I loosen my hold. Allowing her to nip at my lips as I say, “I… I don’t like kissing… with tongue.”
Dove blinks. “What? You afraid I’ll try to bite it off?”
Running my hands down her sides and underneath my jacket, I rub the soft fabric of her dress with rough strokes. “It just grosses me out.”
“Why?” Her question is genuine, and she stops moving, hands steady on my chest while she waits for my answer.
“I don’t know. They’re… long.” I realize how stupid I sound and try to distract her by kissing down her throat.
When I get to her collarbone, she drops her mouth to the base of my throat. “Of course they are. They’re for licking.” Her mouth traces a slow line upward. “And tasting.” She presses an open-mouthed kiss on the pulse point below my ear before grabbing my chin and turning my face to her. “And kissing.”
Kiss me now, Songbird! Just like I taught you!
Panic flares. Red-hot, all-consuming. A voice that isn’t hers invades my head.
Danger.
We’re in danger.
I can’t see. Everything is a blur, but I’m vaguely aware of hands grasping at mine, even though all I see is red.
Danger.
We’re in danger.
“...it’s me,” a soft gasp.
A sharp bark. Then another.
“Wren… it’s me… it’s Dove. It’s just Dove.” Hoarse and broken and begging.
“Wren!”
Another sharp bark .
I don’t have a dog.
I don’t have a dog.
I don’t…
The world comes crashing back in a burst of cream and pink, and I release my grip as she stumbles off my lap, gasping for air and delicately clutching her throat.
“Holy shit. Dove, I’m so sorry.” Shock and realization knock the air from my lungs. I push to my feet and reach for her, but she sticks a hand out to stop me.
“No. I’m sorry, Wren. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Are you okay?” She doesn’t look scared of me, but she should be by the looks of the red ring of fingerprints marring her skin. The sight makes my stomach roil as the beers I had earlier threaten to make an appearance.
I hurt her.
I hurt her, and she’s asking if I’m okay. “Dove…”
“It’s okay.” She shakes her head as I approach her again. “Seriously, I’m good.” Her voice is raspy and sounds so fucking painful, and it hurts me to know I’m the cause of it.
“Fuck!” What if I did permanent damage? What if I ruined her vocal cords, and I never get to hear her light-hearted, bubbly cadence again?
I reach out to her, but Fang puts himself between us, growling at me like he can actually stop me from getting to her .
“It’s okay, baby. He didn’t mean to,” she coos.
I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to. Another flashback strobes across my vision.
I’ve never had something set me off to the point of violence before. “I’m so sorry.”
Dove tells me she’s okay again, but I don’t hear it. I flee out of shame. Especially after what she told me.
Dove opened up, letting me in by sharing about the demon of her past.
I just let mine ruin our whole goddamn future.